


Auld Lang Syne

by IncandescentAntelope



Series: Historical AUs [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M, Nurse Katsuki Yuuri, Post-War, Reunions, Soldier Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncandescentAntelope/pseuds/IncandescentAntelope
Summary: It's New Year's Eve, 1945, and it has been four years since Yuuri and Viktor were separated to serve in the war. The war has ended, but Yuuri hasn't heard from his husband since August.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Series: Historical AUs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731136
Comments: 38
Kudos: 270





	Auld Lang Syne

**Author's Note:**

> hi friends! please ignore any historical inaccuracies, this is kind of just a mashup of real history and pretend history! (also if you want to know what kind of uniform Viktor wears, click [ here](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/86/ed/b8/86edb8853af57cc27ebac292c78a0290.jpg), it's the first one!) (also also click [ here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLMDPEX1g1Df2ukXJw-h5lNUCkNry8oh59) for a playlist of recommended listening <3)

Yuuri shivered as he dropped another log on the fire, only now having noticed the chill in the living room. Makkachin whined at the sudden sound, sitting up from her small bed on the floor.

“I know, darling, I know.” Yuuri cooed, crouching to pet her fluffy head, scratching behind her ears, just how she liked. The poodle huffed softly at him, before nosing at his hand appreciatively. “Yeah, you remember me. You know me.” he hummed, mostly to himself. The transition hadn’t been easy on her, when the draft came. She had gone to live with the neighbors, keeping a lonely widow and her granddaughter company during their conscription.

Yuuri sighed and stood, his knees and hips crackling like that log on the fire. Snow fell in soft, shimmering waves outside the windows, which were for once not darkened or covered by taped X’s like they had for nearly four years. Yuuri allowed himself the momentary distraction, lingering at the window; he watched as the city plunged into darkness, save for soft candlelight flickering in windows. The war was over, but habits weren’t, most families, Yuuri included, were still used to rationing their power, even now, nearly four months past.

A gleam of gold in the glass reflected back at him, and his hand moved up to meet the heart-shaped locket around his neck, held close to his chest from the moment he had been gifted the necklace. He fiddled with it idly, running his fingers over the delicately carved initials now nearly rubbed smooth after four years, held tightly in his hand every time he thought of his Viktor. Photos of them were tucked inside, and Yuuri allowed himself to look at the dashing, marble-carved visage of his husband when the weight was too much to bear.

Yuuri talked to him sometimes, telling him about his day, his return to a sort of normal at the hospital in town. He told Viktor about the odd feeling of another day passing without assisting in an emergency amputation, or a failed bullet recovery.

He didn’t feel as alone when he talked to the small, heart-shaped photo of Viktor in his locket, his dashing husband’s graduation photo, those brilliant blue eyes piercing even in black and white.

They were far too young when the draft notice had arrived for them; calling them to duty along with the rest of Europe's young men. Yuuri was barely nineteen, but having just finished his schooling as a nurse, was conscripted to a hospital in France, and Viktor was called to the western front, at barely twenty-four. Their wedding had always been a far-off plan, a fancy for someday.

“We can ignore it, I have family in Switzerland, we can run,” Viktor began to object immediately upon reading the official letterhead. “I can’t leave you,” he whispered, dropping the twin letters and holding Yuuri close to his chest. Yuuri still remembers the scratch of his woolen sweater against his cheek from that night. “I won’t do it, they can’t take you from me.”

“We can’t ignore it, love,” Yuuri said with a weak voice, shaking hands memorizing the slope of his fiance’s back and shoulders. “You know we can’t.”

Viktor buried his nose in Yuuri’s hair, his frame shuddering with a sob. “Then marry me. Tomorrow. We’ll go to the courthouse. They can’t separate us if we’re married.” The dam collapsed then, releasing every tear Yuuri had been holding back.

“They already know we aren’t married, Viten’ka. This… this is how it has to be.” Yuuri replied, hiccupping around his words as his tears threatened to pull him under. “But… I do still want to marry you. I have my old suit around somewhere,” he added, trying to find some kind of silver lining. Their marriage was just one of nearly forty that day, couples gripping each other tightly as the draft settled over the city like heavy snow.

Yuuri shuddered a long sigh, trying to shake the pain before it took hold. He knew it would be difficult, spending the holidays at home again for the first time in four years, settling back into civilian life after the horrors he had seen, but in every fantasized dream of their first Christmas back home, Viktor was… he was there. Viktor was supposed to be home, setting in his easy chair, reading the paper, smoking that pipe that Yuuri chastised him for every time, playing with Makkachin in the snow, making a wish and blowing out birthday candles, opening the gift Yuuri had picked out for him at market back in September when his own conscription had ended.

Christmas had come and gone, and the new cufflinks he had bought him sat wrapped on the mantle, between their wedding photo and the last photo they had taken together, Viktor in his formal browns and Yuuri in white, his nurse’s cap pinned perfectly in place.

But Yuuri hadn’t heard from his husband since late summer. His last letter was dated the fourth of August, and Yuuri had lost track of how many times he had read, re-read, and re-read again that handwritten letter, a coffee ring darkening the bottom right corner beside Viktor’s name.

> _4th August, 1945_  
>  _My dearest Yuuri,_
> 
> _The photo of you I tucked into my watch has begun to fade, but I know I will never forget the smile on your face, bright as the summer sun lighting my short break from duties today. I still remember your laugh, brilliant and joyful when you sang to Makka, dancing in the kitchen when I came home, those years ago._
> 
> _Things have been quiet, graciously. We have been camped near Vienna since the push in May, but not much more has happened since then. I think of you often, when I pass the medic’s stations. None of the nurses are as fair as you are, solnyshko, don’t worry. I long for you just as much as I did when I first laid eyes on you._
> 
> _Only the thought of seeing you again has me living on, despite the horrible things I’ve seen here. I dream of you every night, love, I think of you whenever I can find a moment alone to relieve the more carnal urges. I ache for you, darling. Even as I write this I feel myself growing weary of the wait, tears blur my vision. I pray I can hold you again soon._
> 
> _I fight for you, zvezda moya. Continue fighting for me as well. I believe we will see each other soon._
> 
> _All my love,_  
>  _Your Viten’ka_

Tears swam in Yuuri’s eyes as he read the letter again, setting it back down the bedside where he preferred to leave it. Viktor’s side of the bed was left untouched, save for the occasional pillow fluffing and cover changing, when Yuuri had arrived home to find dust settled over every surface in their small apartment. Even the cup of coffee Viktor had drank the morning they left was still sitting in the sink when he returned home, left unwashed and irrevocably stained.

Yuuri felt that tightness in his chest grip at him again, and he spun his gold ring around his finger, wondering if he might summon his husband from thin air if he wished it hard enough.

The chill persisted, the drafty window in the corner pushing a stiff breeze up the back of Yuuri’s sweater. He shuddered and wrapped himself in the hand-knit throw he had busied himself with when fall settled in. Yuuri hurried to put the kettle on, grateful once again for control of his own tea. His time in France had been utterly soul-wrenching, so much so that just a proper cup of tea had him weeping in their empty kitchen that first day home.

Simply waiting for the hiss of steam was too much, an unsettling quiet making his ears ring. He flipped on the radio, just to hear something else beside the thoughts rattling around in his own head. He had kept up with the neighbors on their drafted loved ones, asking around if anyone had heard about Viktor’s platoon when he visited for tea. No one had heard any inspiring news, most of the troops having been shipped home in early October.

Yuuri bit his lip against the ugly thoughts, refusing to believe that Viktor was one of the nearly innumerable casualties the horrible war had inflicted, the death toll making Yuuri physically ill. Some estimates said nearly seventy million.

The screech of the kettle made Yuuri jump, nearly dropping the empty mug he had been holding. His hands shook, once again the rusty color of dried blood under his fingernails. He could almost smell the gunpowder. Hear the sounds. He pulled the kettle off the burner, immediately pouring a cup over a bag of black tea, desperately eager for his package from home to arrive.

Mari had promised she would send a box of the green tea they served at home, instead of this bland nonsense. Yuuri hated altering his tea, usually opting to leave it as it was, but he dropped two sugar cubes and added a splash of cream.

It was how Viktor liked his coffee.

 _Likes_ , Yuuri reminded himself, something ugly clawing its way up his throat. _Likes_.

He sipped the tea slowly, trying not to balk at the sweetness. Maybe just one sugar cube next time, he considered, his tongue still reacclimating to the almost overwhelming sweetness. Rations and all.

His tea brewed, he found his way back to the couch where Makkachin had curled up against the armrest, her brown eyes meeting Yuuri’s in a way that felt sad, looking just as lonely as he felt. He sighed softly and took his seat, reaching for the novel he was in the process of re-reading, having completely forgotten it in his rush to pack before leaving for the train station.

The words swam in front of his eyes like ripples on a pool, twisting and curling in a way that made them nearly unreadable, even when Yuuri pulled his glasses from his face, rubbing his eyes to clear away the spots. He fought the urge to just lob the book into the fireplace when the words began to make less sense than before, morphing before his eyes into foreign glyphs and scrawling lines bearing no translation.

Makkachin whined, nudging Yuuri’s thigh with a cold, wet nose, huffing at him. “Do you need to go out?” Yuuri asked, setting the book aside instead of immolating it, like he had considered. She boofed low and proud, hopping off the couch and trotting to the front door, sitting pretty by the coat rack. Yuuri laughed, remembering the painstaking training Viktor had gone through to teach her to wait there, all the bacon-flavored bribery in the world couldn’t teach her to sit. He shuddered at the cold when he left the blanket behind on the couch, reaching for Viktor’s heavy, caramel-colored coat and shrugging into it like a second skin.

It still smelled like him, after all this time.

The poodle was blessedly quick about her business, hurrying back inside and out of the snow before the frigid wind could whip at Yuuri’s nose too much. Even with the collar of the knee-length coat turned up, Yuuri felt the chill sinking into his bones.

“Good girl,” he whispered as they hurried back inside the building, rushing back up the stairs and into the apartment. Adding another log to the fire, Yuuri realized he hadn’t taken off the coat yet, even though he had changed back into his house slippers.

His throat tightened around a self-deprecating laugh, not sure if he was meant to feel foolish or upset. He hung the garment back up and patted Makkachin’s head softly, trying not to think about the way she was nosing at Viktor’s shoes, still lined up against the wall. He made his way to the bedroom, admiring the framed photos lining the wall in the narrow hallway as he went. Shucking his own sweater and tossing it aside, he pulled open the third drawer of Viktor’s bureau carefully, spotting the cream-colored cashmere turtleneck Yuuri had bought him for his birthday. Idly, he wondered if it would still fit his husband’s frame, if the training he had told him about in his letters was as strenuous and rigorous as he claimed.

He slipped into the garment, feeling the slide of the fabric over his bare chest and back. He pulled the golden locket out from underneath, laying it flat between his collarbones, shining in the dull light. Wrapped up in Viktor’s sweater, Yuuri admired himself in the mirror, only for a moment. Another carryover from the limited personal time he had been afforded for so long.

He looked as tired as he felt, his eyes red and watery behind his blue frames, his hair messy and unkempt. How long had it been since he had visited the barber, he wondered, running his hand through the thick black mass of it. Maybe tomorrow, he mumbled, if he could fit him in.

He turned his back to the mirror, not bearing to focus on himself any longer. Without a second thought, he reached for the box of letters he had set on his dresser, the pile of them wrapped in twine and carefully organized by date. Finding his seat on the couch again, Yuuri leafed through the envelopes, bearing different and foreign stamps and marks from countries all over the western front.

The well worn, faded blue envelope from November 20th, two years ago, always caught Yuuri’s attention first, and he pulled it from the pile with a tired sigh. Four pages, Viktor had written him that day, hoping it would reach him in time for his birthday. Yuuri's heart flipped it arrived just in time, reading the letter with teary eyes on the morning of his twenty-first birthday.

He read the words aloud, though he had all but committed them to memory, imagining his Viktor’s voice, his laugh when he made a joke at his comrade’s expense, teasing Christophe for getting caught smuggling Schnapps into the barracks. The joke brought a smile to Yuuri’s face every time, despite how many hundreds of times he had read it in the past two years since he had sent it.

He pulled another from the pile, the envelope with the doodle of Makkachin, barking an eager hello from Czechoslovakia. Viktor had found a book of poems in a shop while on a weekend leave in Prague, sending a few pages of it to Yuuri with translations written in the margins, in his own handwriting. Yuuri had memorized those as well, hoping to recite them when they reunited.

His throat tightened around the words as he breathed them now, wondering if he would ever use them, if Viktor would return to hear them.

He pushed the letter box away, collapsing into his hands, a shuddered sob rocking through his core, drowning out the slow drone of the radio, playing something offensively romantic. He glared at the horrible device as the soulful tones of Ella Fitzgerald faded, the radio left on the station Viktor liked. It sat on the end table, where Viktor’s readers were, where Viktor’s tin of tobacco was, where Viktor’s hand-carved pipe was.

Where Viktor should have been.

It mocked him, the empty easy chair, the same shade of chocolate brown as his horrible corduroys. It mocked Yuuri with its vacancy, reminding him that he was still alone, that he still waited, that blue star banner they had hung together still displayed in the window proudly, waiting to be taken down when Viktor returned.

But the sinking feeling in Yuuri’s core told him it wouldn’t be removed, but would be replaced with a gold one. No one had heard from the 89th in months.

A cry ripped itself from Yuuri’s throat, sinking to the floor. He held his locket in the palm of his hand, still clinging to what he had left. They hadn’t been married two weeks when they had to part, Viktor gripping him so tight he felt he might break when they were separated at the train station.

“You should be here,” he sobbed, his voice weak and raspy in the quiet of the apartment, “You should have come home by now. It’s… it’s not fair.”

The frame on the mantle caught his eye again, despite the dying light in the fireplace; the hastily posed wedding photo was the only one they had, asking Georgi to take it the day before they shipped out.

“We were… supposed to grow old together,” he choked, _“You promised!”_ he shouted at the photo, the two of them looking that horrible mix of joy and melancholy, the smiles on their faces only half-formed. “You promised me forever!” he screamed, undoubtedly disturbing the neighbors. Makkachin whimpered at the sudden outburst and stood from her bed, trotting back to the door, waiting at her spot. Just the act of it brought fresh tears to Yuuri’s eyes.

“Don’t you get it, Makka? He’s not coming home.” Yuuri cried, the crushing weight of it finally pushing him to the ground. He had barely evaded it for four months, staying just one step ahead of it all this time, falling asleep before the thoughts could pull him under. But now… he couldn’t fight it anymore. “He won’t come back, don’t just sit there waiting for him. He’s… he’s dead. He isn’t coming back.”

The world had cruel intentions that night, undercutting the thick, leaden quiet in the room with a voice warbling in over the radio waves.

_“It’s one minute to midnight, everyone; gather up all your loved ones, your sweetheart, those closest to you. Hold them close, if you can. After the year this wretched world has seen, I hope and pray we can all look forward to a brighter year ahead.”_

Yuuri blinked at the radio, realizing the date. It was New Year’s Eve. In the haze of it all, Yuuri had lost track. The host began counting backward from sixty, each second ticking down to the beginning of a new year. Yuuri sobbed again, wrapping his arms around his knees where he sat on the floor in front of the sofa, the fire finally crackling its last, collapsing into a pile of char and ash.

What a cruel trick to play, Yuuri thought, that a new year would begin at the end of his life this way? As his own world collapsed, the rest of the world would have its new beginning?

Makkachin’s needling whine cut through the countdown, the soft strings of that familiar song growing behind it as the numbers dropped to single digits. Yuuri bit his lip, willing himself the strength to stand, despite everything in his core imploring him to stay on the ground, to succumb, let the world pass him by.

She whimpered again, scratching at the door, Yuuri’s voice too weak to reprimand her for misbehaving, remembering how many times he and Viktor had needed to repaint the door, covering up the dragging marks below the knob.

“I’m coming,” Yuuri said, his voice hoarse and raw, gritting his teeth at the sound of a knock on his door. God, any time but right now. He couldn’t bear the thought of greeting another human being in this state, surely red-eyed and disheveled, wearing a wrinkled sweater two sizes too big.

The knocking persisted, Yuuri saw the shuffle of feet shadowed from the light in the hallway. He shuddered a cleansing breath, trying to gain any sort of control over himself as Makkachin whined again, standing up on her hind legs against the door.

“M-Makka, down,” Yuuri tried to correct her, pulling her by her collar and setting her back down, but she stood back up immediately, barking and pawing at the door. “I know, someone’s there--”

 _“Yuuri?”_ the voice on the other side of the door said, muffled through the wood. Yuuri’s heart leapt up into his throat.

It… couldn’t be.

Yuuri’s hands shook as he set his hand on the knob, the trembling nearly too much to turn the damn thing. He had to be hearing things. It was late, he couldn’t stay up nearly as late as he used to… but…

 _“Happy New Year, one and all! Today’s date is the first of January, 1946!”_ the radio proclaimed, but Yuuri didn’t hear it. He turned the doorknob, slowly pulling it open as Makkachin whined and cried behind him, trying to squeeze through the gap. Yuuri didn’t look up from the floor, seeing a pair of knee-high black boots first, then the brown of military fatigues. He dreaded looking further, that it might finally be the news he had been fearing. An officer delivering a letter of regret.

“Yuuri…” the voice said again, compelling Yuuri to finally look up and throw the door open.

“V… Viktor.” Yuuri sobbed, finally seeing his husband’s face again, that sharp, slightly stubbled jaw, his silver hair combed back under his garrison cap, those blue-green eyes that always threatened to drown him. “You’re alive.” he breathed, frozen where he stood. “I… I thought--”

“I’m alive,” Viktor nodded, tears already beginning to bead in the corners of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks, flushed with the cold. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come home.” he whispered before wrapping his arms around Yuuri, gripping him as tightly as he had when they parted.

Yuuri flung himself into Viktor’s arms, his hands scrambling for purchase against his stiff coat, as if he might disappear into nothing if he let him go. His breaths came in hurried, gasping repetitions of Viktor’s name, tears dripping into the thick wool of his uniform. He smelled of gasoline, and coal, his cologne and tobacco, the faintest hint of sweat lingered on his skin, but far be it from Yuuri to complain.

A shower was secondary, tertiary, even. All that mattered was the warmth of his embrace, the press of his lips against Yuuri’s cheek, his ear, his temple, anything Viktor’s mouth could touch without breaking their embrace.

“You’re here,” Yuuri whispered when his arms began to shake, shivering as cold air blew in through the open door. “What… what happened?” he asked, finally pulling away, meeting those watery Caribbean blues again.

“We lost contact with the Austrian base, they couldn’t find us.” Viktor explained, “We had to make our way back on our own.” He stepped into the entry and knelt down, extending a hand to Makkachin. “We had a few setbacks, we never stayed anywhere long enough to write.”

After a moment of trepidation, Makkachin recognized him, lapping at his face and all but tackling him to the ground. Yuuri laughed then, a watery, teary laugh, as Viktor’s own laugh filled the room again. He sank to the floor with them, simply watching and enjoying their little reunion.

“Are you wearing my sweater?” Viktor asked, sitting up again, smiling fondly at the way Makkachin set her head in his lap. “And you still wear the locket?” he asked, as if in disbelief.

Yuuri nodded yes, eyeing Viktor’s right hand, still covered by a glove. “And… you? Do you still have your--”

Viktor pulled the glove off his hand, revealing his own ring, still firmly in place around his finger. “I never took it off, love. Never once. I never once stopped thinking of you, even… god, even in the field, I never once stopped thinking of you. I imagined coming home to you, holding you again…” Viktor’s voice was strained, the sheen of tears in his eyes threatening to overflow again.

“Then hold me,” Yuuri whispered, falling into Viktor’s arms again, their lips finding each other as the world outside burst into screaming color. Viktor’s grip tightened, flinching with the sound, but Yuuri held him fast. “And I promise I’ll hold you too.”

* * *

We too have paddled in the stream

From morning sun to night

The seas between us broad have roared

From auld lang syne

For auld lang syne, my dear

For auld lang syne

We'll take a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year everyone! i hope your day is full of love and light and you're in good company. May 2020 be better to all of us. <3 
> 
> i love you all! 
> 
> -ia <3  
> [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/ia_theauthor) | [Tumblr](https://incandescentantelope.tumblr.com)


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